To Steal a Smile
by Mysterious Loser
Summary: If there was one person Swaine never thought he'd be jealous of, it was himself. - A retelling of some of the events up on Tombstone Trail. SPOILERS for those who don't know Swaine's storyline. Swaine/Esther/Gascon


**Disclaimer: **I don't own Ni No Kuni or any of its characters. If I had, I would've made more ATE's between the characters. And, yes, that was a Final Fantasy IX reference :-D

**A/N:** This is my first Ni No Kuni fic, so please don't be unnecessarily harsh. Critiques are more than welcomed but flames will be used to create a mega bonfire.

This is a Swaine/Esther/Gascon one-shot – a retelling of some of the events that took place at Tombstone Trail. I must say, if there's one thing that made me sad about Ni No Kuni, it was its lack of character development. Oh well. Being that I didn't have much to go off of, I tried the best I could. I hope I did all right in keeping the characters true to themselves. And, of course, we don't know the ages of Esther and Swaine, but that doesn't stop me from shipping them anyway. XD (It also makes me sad to see the lack of fandom for the game. Well, I tried to do my part anyway.)

Hope you guys enjoy the story!

**\/\/\/**

**To Steal a Smile**

**\/\/\/**

If there was one person Swaine never thought he'd be jealous of, it was himself.

The younger, cheeky, unlikeable, and badly dressed version of himself.

People often asked him if he ever listened to himself when he talked, and the upside was now he could say that he had. And he _hated _it.

_Was I __**always**__ this despicable? _he found himself asking, and cocked his head while scratching the small stubble on his face. From the moment they met the prince, and Swaine heard a name he hadn't thought of in years, it was all the thief could think of.

Gascon.

Ungrateful, self-centered, and entirely worthy of being loathed. Swaine had half a mind to scold the child after the lot of them saved Gascon and Marcassin from the Ogrrr back in the mine. Esther did well on her own standing up against the older prince, but her success only gave her the confidence to do it more often—and Gascon appeared to enjoy it. He puffed his chest out while taking lead all the way back to Hamelin. He cast insults over his shoulder, and Marcassin shuffled behind him, back hunched, and holding onto his oversized scepter the best he could.

The poor child. Swaine remembered his shy, helpless demeanor well, although he was pretty sure it had all been an act. The older brother had years after his departure from Hamelin to contemplate on the life and brother he left behind. Swaine could not find the right words to say most of the time, and so hid himself in the shadows during their conversations. Even as they made their way up the Tombstone Trail—a place that Swaine recalled oh-so-well, he kept in the back away from everyone else.

His eyes wandered to the younger version of himself: short hair, regal wear, and a spine that hadn't learned to slouch like his had. Marcassin, a head and a half shorter than his idolized brother, did his best to keep up. Tiny fingers were wrapped around the thick steel of the scepter, and Swaine wondered why he hadn't offered to carry it more often when he was a child. He asked himself if it would be wise to offer now.

But he thought better of it. He hadn't talked much up to this point and it would be a waste of breath to start.

Still...he regretted not having done it in the past. Watching his younger brother struggle to walk in the footsteps of the elder was pitiful—mostly for Swaine. For that, he did his best to watch out for the boy as much as possible. The fights with the monsters were the worst, and he was less than pleased to have the two princes tag along in such a dangerous environment.

Swaine inwardly chuckled.

Things were so much different when it came from an outsider's view, especially from one who had experience. As a child, a stroll up Tombstone Trail seemed like nothing, and now what Swaine wouldn't give to send the boys back home.

Because of that, the disheveled, droopy-eyed man found himself watching the backs specifically of two people—Marcassin's...and Esther's.

That bothersome girl.

She was so nosy, and bossy, almost as much as Gascon. When she put her little hands on her hips in the middle of a temper tantrum, Swaine couldn't decide whether to yell back at her, or pinch her cheeks and remark at how cute she was. She angered him often, especially when he had first met her. Their fights were real, and the confined quarters of a boat for days on end made him ponder jumping overboard.

Although they hadn't been together for a long period of time, Swaine found himself quite fond of her, and would deliberately pick arguments with her just so that she would pay attention to him.

But ever since Gascon and Marcassin entered the picture, Swaine knew he had to stay quiet, lest his secret be uncovered, and his companions start asking questions. Or worse, treat him differently. Being away from the royal scene humbled the older man, and resorting to stealing rather than have everything handed to you was an extreme change that he never wanted to go through again.

Of course, choosing to remain silent meant that Esther had no one else to argue with except for antagonistic Gascon, whose mere ignorance of the world was beginning to grate on Swaine's nerves.

During their trip up the mountain and in between ambushes, he would speak of Hamelin, his endeavors and achievements, and boast about the new gun he was working on. Esther was eating it up as though she hadn't seen Swaine's gun before.

_She calls __**me**__ the jerk, but if she were any closer to Prince Pompous, they'd be holding hands._

The wind picked up and rolled down the trail, stopping the party in its path. Swaine felt the goosebumps rise up on his neck, and even down his arms and legs despite wearing clothes. He hugged himself tightly and lowered his head. Marcassin took the worst of it until Gascon stepped in front and shielded him from the rest.

Swaine felt a smile tug at his lips.

_Admirable for once. I think I might have even done the same thing._

"Keep goin', Ollie-boy," Drippy tucked himself in behind their leader's legs, lest he be blown away by the wind. The lantern on his nose was swinging, and the fairy risked being hit in the face by it. "Can't be turnin' back now. Nothin' but a little cold ei'nt it?"

"The higher we go the colder it's going to get." Esther rubbed her elbows with her hands. Her teeth chattered, but she was doing her best to shake it off. "Besides, I doubt the skeleton will let us through a second time."

Ah, that bumbling stack of bones. After Oliver cast that horrible spell on the party, Swaine wasn't sure how things would end up. He had been against it from the beginning. The dead and the living were separate for a reason. Even now, he wondered if there would be some lingering side effects in the future. He could fall down dead before they ever saw hair of Shadar again.

Less than a lovely thought.

"She's right," Oliver rubbed his hands together, teeth clanking to accent his words. "Come on."

Gascon put a hand on Marcassin's shoulder and waited for the wind to pass. Esther turned her gaze to him—another painful stab in Swaine's chest—and the prince mirrored her expression.

_Determined little brats. Nothing but damn wind anyway. What's gotta get them so worked up about it anyway?_

"Gascon..." Marcassin tugged on his big brother's sleeve, "...my feet hurt. And it's cold. Can we stop for a little bit?"

For a moment the older boy's face softened, one that Swaine remembered long ago. The older prince glanced around at the narrow trail, then squinted his eyes up ahead.

Nothing but a twisted dead tree, a couple of grave markers, and a harvest moon that lit up the entire sky like a fireball. Up ahead the walls of the mountain caved in almost together, creating a barrier that would make the wind more bearable.

"Up there," Swaine nodded. "We might be able to take shelter in between the stones and get our bearings."

Gascon released his hand from his brother's shoulder, then turned to face the group, though his attention mostly vacillated between his brother and Esther.

"Listen up, you lot. I've traveled this valley before. Let's head out up there for a while until the wind dies down and then we'll continue up the mountain."

Something about the way the prince spoke made the party come alive. Or maybe it was because Swaine's younger, more energetic self was around to take command, making the older man less visible. Whatever it was, the buzz around the rest of the group was in favor of that plan, and Swaine rolled his eyes.

_Cheeky so-and-so. Needs a good spanking if you ask me._

Oliver and Drippy took the running start, and there was one time that Swaine was sure the fairy was going to simply blow away. Esther stayed behind with Gascon to hurry Marcassin along, and while the oldest man was cold, he wasn't in the mood to run—especially with the lot of incorrigible children around.

"Say, what's that?" Swaine heard the fairy's voice echo in between the walls. "A little run-down shack, is it?"

He watched the backs of Esther and Gascon disappear into the darkness of the mountain walls, and the peak of light reappear from the other side. The thief squinted, moved a little faster to avoid the next round of gusts, and was swallowed up into the blackest part of the shadow. Drippy's tiny lantern was dancing back and forth, although his form was hard to see, and looked like a bright star moving all on its own.

"It doesn't look like anyone's lived here in a long time." Oliver's voice was unmistakeable.

Wanting to see what the fuss was about, Swaine moved in closer until the other side of the mountain widened into a deep clearing. The mountain walls made a half circle around the clearing and so-called shack, which would be perfect for keeping out the wind. Continuing to move forward in the tight space created by stone, Swaine searched for the shape of the tiny hut until the straw of the roof came into view. Attached was a small wooden shack, and a banged up door that remained surprisingly in one piece.

Then he bumped into someone smaller within the confines of the space that he couldn't see.

"Ouch," Esther complained, then turned her head, whipping her braid against Swaine's cheek.

"Sonuva—" his hands fled to his face and he heard the girl shuffle.

"Swaine? Is that _you_ who ran into me?" Her voice was haughty and demanding, as per usual. It wouldn't be a normal day under the stars if it wasn't.

"Like I could see you in the dark," he retreated a few steps away, hoping she wouldn't swing her head again. "Gah, you don't need a harp to attack your enemies. Your whip of a braid does just fine by itself."

He heard a deep thump, and wondered if she had stomped her foot. Again, as per usual.

"What's _that_ supposed to mean?"

"I'm sorry, am I being unclear? Shall I draw a picture?"

"Are they arguin' again?" Drippy's voice cut through the walls. "Crazy lot. Knock off that racket and get on with it!" His tiny body popped forward like a spring—two—three—times before settling on the ground out in the middle of the clearing. "The wind's not so bad 'ere, Ollie-boy!"

Oliver was next to step out into the light while the fairy took in a deep breath that made his chest enlarge tremendously. Then out came the princes, who left Swaine and Esther to their arguing. But she was quick to turn on him and lightly jogged into the clearing.

"Whatever," Swaine scowled to himself and passed through the shadow until he joined the others.

While the moon bathed them in its light, it was far from warm. From across the way the homely shack became more visible, though not quite as inviting as he would've hoped. All the windows were broken, claw marks gave a nice touch to the door, and the back was crumbling in. Swaine extinguished the idea of using the shack for shelter from the wind, and fearful thoughts danced their way into his head about the monsters or creatures that were waiting inside for him.

Outside sounded _much_ nicer on that note.

"Here's some cake, Marcassin." Oliver was fishing around in his pouch and withdrew a neatly red, wrapped cloth tied at the top. He sat down on the ground along with Drippy.

The young prince seated himself beside them and waited patiently, but his hands were ready to receive. Once the string had been pulled, the cloth fell away and revealed a small slice of chocolate cake. Oliver broke the treat in half and handed the bigger slice to the other boy.

"Thank you so much," Marcassin eyed it for a moment before diligently nibbling at it.

Swaine laughed.

He knew his brother far too well, even after all of this time. Marcassin kept to his politeness rather well, but it was clear in his eyes that he wanted nothing more than to shove the cake into his mouth without a second thought. Gascon stood some feet away from Oliver and his brother, watching as Oliver produced another cake from the pouch—one that he split three ways this time: for himself, another piece for Marcassin, and the last for the fairy.

"I have even more than that," Oliver bragged before shoveling pieces of the cake into his open mouth.

"That ol' nanny sure knows how ta cook!" Drippy serenaded with the delectable before taking a bite himself.

Now having two pieces of cake, Marcassin's bites grew bigger, and he didn't seem to care _who_ was watching, not with the splitting smile across his face. Swaine stood in the back, hungry himself, and his stomach let him know so.

"I hope you packed more than that, Oliver," Esther was fumbling around in her own bag. "You'll spoil your appetite on just cake."

"I have a sandwich," the boy replied with his mouth half full. Cake sprayed across the ground from where they sat.

"Is _that_ all?" Swaine chuckled.

Once Esther found her own stack of sandwiches, she took a seat across from Oliver, but not before wiping it clean with her hand.

"Youer bum is goin' ta get dirty anyway, Esther," Drippy pointed out.

"I know." She unwrapped her food. "Force of habit from living in Al Mamoon, I suppose. Everything is so sandy and dusty there, it's hard to stay clean for long." Swaine half expected her to glance up at him since he was standing over her, but her attention found Gascon's eyes. "Sandwich?" She held one up to him.

Swaine frowned.

He _hated_ common people food as a child, especially if a _girl_ had prepared it. But it wasn't until the older prince had set off on his own that he found that even rice makes for a king's meal when one has no money, and Esther was a fine cook indeed.

Gascon almost snatched the sandwich from her hand, but stopped at the last moment.

"Um," he paused, the pangs of hunger evident in his eyes, but the desire to be polite for..._some_ strange reason ruled out his wants. "Thank you." He reached in again, kinder this time, and took the sandwich from her.

Swaine's eyebrows knitted together when the older prince unwrapped the sandwich, used the cloth as a napkin, and bit down into the soft bread harboring meat, cheese, lettuce, and a secret sauce that Esther shared with no one.

"This is pleasant," he critiqued after he chewed. "Most acceptable indeed. Tell me, what _is _this sauce?"

The desert girl laughed. "It's a se-cr-et." She lolled her head to the side. "_Bu~t_ I think I can tell you." She motioned him with her hand to come closer and opened her mouth to talk into his ear.

The thief quickly stepped forward to interrupt. "Where's _my_ sandwich, Esther?"

Gascon staggered backward, then regained his composure. She, on the other hand, stared long and hard up at him, then her eyes became narrow slits.

"Where's your _what,_ Swaine? After the complaints you've given about my cooking? Why would I give you _any_ of my food?"

He clamped his mouth shut and his eyes vacillated from left to right while he thought of a good excuse. It was true that he often criticized the girl for her cooking, not that he thought poorly of it—far from the truth really—but if he began to praise her now, she'd think differently of him. They wouldn't have much of a reason to bicker, and that was less attention she'd give to him.

Of course, that put him in a rather nasty situation at the moment.

"W-Well, it's not that I don't _not_ like your cooking...Er, what I mean is...We haven't eaten since this morning, and it might be a proper time to give your cooking a second chance...But..."

A small hand appeared up underneath Swaine's chin and he glanced down.

"Here you go, Swaine," Oliver smiled. "I have some leftover cake for you."

_Damn it all!_

"Oh, look," Esther's tone was dry and unsympathetic...as usual, "Oliver's got some _cake_ that the Hootique lady made. It's loads better than _my_ cooking and I wouldn't want to subject you if I didn't have to. You might get sick or something."

Gascon had her attention again. Of course. He sat next to her because she had the good food and he knew she'd give him more if he asked—which he _did._ Swaine snatched the cake out of Oliver's hands, muttered a barely coherent, "Thanks," and ripped a piece of the cake off with his back teeth.

The sponge part of it was moist, as he figured it would be, and ripping a piece of the cake turned more into him clanking his teeth together in an especially sensitive fashion. Swaine cupped his cheek as he let out a silenced cry and closed his eyes.

"You're welcome," Oliver's smile widened, as he failed to catch the reality of the situation and sat back down in between the younger prince and Drippy.

The fairy was in the process of pillaging the boy's sandwich in the leather pouch, disappearing entirely under the flap, and Marcassin was delicately licking his fingers clean. After the pain in Swaine's tooth dissipated, he went back to the cake, nibbling at it the second time around.

"So, things really seem hard for you at the Empire," Esther said.

Gascon was in mid-bite of his sandwich, and Swaine knew that the prince was grateful to have his mouth full at the time of questioning. Empire life was a sore topic, even now years later, and Swaine remembered the open wound of it upon its mentioning.

"That's an understatement," Gascon mumbled after swallowing. He appeared ready to take the next bite.

"But it can't be _all_ bad," she nudged, offering one of her precious Esther smiles.

Swaine rolled his eyes.

_Nosy, as always. But it's going to take a chomp out of her arse this time. He doesn't want to talk about it, and she should take it from the guy who knows._

"Yes, it _is,_" Gascon argued, fingers tightening around what remained of the sandwich. "You met my father. You saw us. His highest priority is Marcassin and his well-being."

"I don't think that's entirely true, Gascon..." she continued to smile, but the ends of her lips were shaky. "It just seems like tough love. I'm sure that, deep down, your father loves you very much."

The prince sighed and brought the sandwich up to his lips. He had seemed to think better of crushing the bread and its contents because his fingers gripping it loosened substantially. "Oh, what would _you_ know of such things? _You're_ not royalty." He bit down.

Esther frowned. "Yes, that may be true, but I _am_ the daughter of one of the Great Sages. And I hardly am able to follow in his footsteps myself."

Gascon freed the sandwich of his teeth and turned back to the girl. "_You?_ A daughter of a Great Sage?"

"Yes," she nodded. "Rashaad in Al Mamoon. And I know how it feels to want to be a part of these things. My father is a great wizard, but I am skilled in playing instruments. Like you, I can see that you're adept at creating things..." she pointed at the small gun tucked into his belt, "...but the connection that the Emperor and Marcassin share is linked together by magic. It's a place that neither of us can go."

The prince's eyes widened, but his lips remained pushed together in a tight, thin line. After a moment he looked away. Swaine watched the boy, curious. Thus far, Gascon's actions didn't quite meet up with the older man's expectations. He was agitated and uncommunicative, but hadn't lashed out in the way that Swaine knew he would have had he been asked the same thing.

Esther gave a soft laugh—the kind that meant she was up to no good, or not going to let a subject drop when she should. She scooted closer next to the boy, who was still holding his half-eaten sandwich, and bumped his shoulder with hers.

"So, have you been allowed to train with weapons yet? Go out and fight a rampaging monster?"

"_...What?_" he shook his head as though he hadn't heard her correctly. Swaine did the same thing.

Esther shifted her body so that she was able to completely face him, body movements lit up, and she clapped her hands together. Swaine furtively stepped to the side, lest someone catch him eying her now that she had her back to him. It twinged a bit in his body that she was unconsciously closing him out of the conversation..._not _that he had been invited to participate in the first place. When it came to such events, there wasn't much speaking between them unless it was an argument or words that would soon lead to one.

"I mean, have you been sent out on a courageous quest yet with the other men to fight for the Empire? Sailed ships? Rescued princesses?"

And suddenly Swaine wished he hadn't made such effort to scoot around to look at her. Her words tossed him back as though it had been done physically, and he scoffed at her foolish daydreaming. Most times, she was a mature, beautiful, budding woman. And times like these, she was five years old again.

"_What?_" Swaine and his younger self echoed.

"What sort of _stories_ are you filling your head with?" the prince's cheeks were reddening, most likely from anger. Swaine never was allowed to go off with the guards at a younger age. Marcassin would have been the first choice had ever such an occasion arise. "Ships? Princesses?"

"I hope some day _I _will have the chance to rescue a princess," came a voice from the other side of the clearing.

Eyes turned and Marcassin was beaming with a goofy smile—one that Gascon would usually have to slap off. It was his dreamy eyed face, which sprung to life after hearing a story from Preater, the city liar who claimed to have saved a damsel himself, or after reading a child's book.

"O-Oh, come off it now," Gascon waved his sandwich at the younger prince. "That will never happen. Princes don't go on adventures, That's what the _guards_ are for."

"That's not true, Gascon," Esther interrupted. "_We're_ on a quest right now, and, correct me if I'm wrong, _you're_ here with us to help acquire the Breach Time spell and Mornstar. Doesn't that qualify as an adventure?"

"That's right," Marcassin nodded. "We're helping Oliver and his friends. Technically, we're rescuing Mornstar from up top of the Tombstone Trail. That's almost the same thing, right?"

"N-No." The prince tore off another piece of his sandwich and said with a mouth full of food, "Thas cumpreree diffrun. Yoo nee ta lurn najig."

Silence passed over them, and Marcassin burst out laughing. Swaine put his head in his hands.

_Smooth. __**Real**__ smooth. You sprayed food all over her._

Embarrassed enough, Gascon shoved the last of the sandwich in his mouth, then jumped to his feet in hopes of refraining from humiliating himself further. It took him a moment more to chew, his cheeks each bursting from food pushing up on both sides. Swaine could see his teeth frantically at work, and Gascon closed his eyes and turned away. Once he was able to swallow, he marched up to his brother and ordered him to his feet.

"Let's practice magic then. Come on, do it like I told you."

The smile disappeared from Marcassin's face, and the child sheepishly stood up, clinging to his oversized scepter like a walking stick. Oliver and Drippy, both who still had food in their hands, watched the two boys walk to the other side of the clearing, Gascon in front, and his saddened brother in back. Swaine put his hands on his hips and looked away.

_Did I __**really**__ pull the smile from Marcassin's face so often? Damn me...Damn me for crushing his spirit so often. He had it...so tough after I left._

"Come on now," Gascon clapped his hands together and stood across from his brother.

Marcassin positioned the scepter in front of him the best that he could and moved it in slow circles above his head. The hum from the magic filled Swaine's ears, and he watched the child concentrate just enough so that a small light decorated the top of the scepter. The older man watched, Marcassin's back to him, but he remembered the boy's face so well when it had actually been _him_ standing across from the prince. And just as soon as it had appeared, the light was gone, snuffed out like the belief that Swaine had snuffed out of his brother so many times years ago.

"I...I'm sorry, Gascon," Marcassin sniffled. "...I just can't do it."

"That's not true!" The older brother walked over to the boy and towered over him, "Marcassin, are you _lying_ to _me?_"

"W-What?" the boy cowered away from Gascon, clinging to his scepter like a boy to a mother's leg.

"I _know_ you can do it!" the older thrust a solid finger at Marcassin. "You're just _pretending_ that you can't!"

"N-No, Gascon, I-I'm not pretending..."

"Yes, you _are._ Do you think it's funny watching me become angry with you? _Why_ would you do something like _that?_"

"Please, Brother, I'm not lying to you. I'm really not." Pools of tears were gathering in the boy's eyes. Although Swaine couldn't see them, he remembered them, just as he remembered Marcassin's quaking voice, and his trembling form. "...Please..."

"I don't believe you!"

Then, the dam broke and the boy was wailing. He grabbed up his scepter and ran behind the shack.

"What the blazes?" Drippy looked from the fleeing child to the older prince before following after Marcassin.

Swaine sighed and craned his head heavenwards.

_Just like I remember. Same old words, same old story._

Marcassin had run off back then, too.

Oliver went after his fairy friend, and Esther marched up to Gascon.

"Hey!" her balled hands were perched on her hips. "You shouldn't be so mean to your brother, you know."

"I _wasn't_ being _mean_ to him," he retorted with a big sigh. Turning to face her, he explained, "I just wanted to know the truth."

Her eyes narrowed. "Well, there's no need to be so pushy with him. He's just a child. And I'm sure he'll master that spell before long."

"I don't think you quite understand. He _can_ cast that spell. He can cast _lots_ of spells. It's just that lately, he's pretending like he doesn't understand magic at all."

Esther's eyes widened, and her fists softened into five little fingers again. "You mean..."

"Yes," Gascon nodded, pleased that she finally grasped his words. "I just don't understand why he's doing this all of a sudden." Then he shook his head and slouched over, defeated. "Perhaps he enjoys watching Father tell me off."

Then something snapped in Swaine—something he hadn't meant to have happen. Watching his brother from an outsider's perspective instead of being one of the contributing players had opened his eyes in a way he never thought possible. And age had made him wiser. When one had nothing to do for years on end except to stowaway in the hulls of ships, or wait for an unsuspecting passerby to lift a hand from their pouch just _long_ enough for him to cut it, there was a lot of thinking to be done.

How his father had died shortly after he ran away, how his brother had been shoved into the position of Emperor when it was supposed to be _his_ duty, and how Marcassin must have suffered for all of these years without him. Seeing him brokenhearted, just as Swaine had been, he knew how it felt. The feeling of Shadar reaching into his chest and ripping out a piece of him, it was something he wished his brother could've stayed ignorant to—to never have to feel that way on top of the loss of his father and his dear older brother.

_"You mean to tell me that Marcassin will become Emperor? What about Gascon? What about my oldest son?"_

"...Do you _really_ think that's it, Gascon? That Marcassin enjoys watching your suffering?"

"What?" the prince furrowed his eyebrows and turned to Swaine, looking at him completely for the first time since he had met them.

Esther watched Swaine, his body shaking, and sad face as he made his way over to the two.

"Well, let me tell you," the scruffy man squeezed his eyes shut and lowered his head, "he hates it. He hates seeing you get told off. But you know what he hates more? The thought of being separated from you. That's what."

"What are you going on about?" the prince crossed his arms.

"Swaine...?" Esther's eyes were on him. He knew because when he opened his own, there were hers, bright and blue and beautiful, all on him. And she said his name in such a way that lulled him. It wasn't with contempt or sarcasm. It was genuinely concerned.

He had to look away from her, or he feared he would lose control and he wouldn't be able to say what needed to be said.

"You know that only those who are capable of wielding magic can ascend to the Hamelin throne, correct? Well, guess what? Marcassin knows this, too."

"How can you know about that?" Gascon appeared uncomfortable, and his eyes were unable to focus on Swaine. "Why are you saying all of this?"

"You know why. He knows that if he were to show promise of being a sage, it would exhibit his worth of becoming the next emperor..." Swaine trailed off for a moment. It was hard for him to speak of such matters himself, as he had already lived through it. And he was bright, and he knew Gascon was bright. The boy wouldn't need for him to write out the conclusion of the inevitably tragic tale. "I don't need to tell you what will happen," he concluded, eyes on his younger self, deep colored eyes matching his own. "But that's why, Gascon. _That's_ why he's pretending to be no good at magic."

"That _still_ doesn't explain how you know all of this," he snapped back. "Are you stalking our family?"

"Hardly," Swaine dryly chuckled. "I just really don't know what to tell you. All I can say is that this is a situation I wouldn't wish on anyone."

Gascon stood still for a moment, his body trembling just as Swaine could still feel his doing. His lips were twitching at their ends, but his eyes were accented by devastated eyebrows, and Swaine wondered if the same lump that was in his throat was in his younger self's.

"What you say..." the prince began, slowly and almost inaudible, "...is not..._untrue._ But, even knowing that..." his head wilted. "I don't care. I _want_ Marcassin to become a powerful wizard. Even if that means giving up the crown, I _will_ help him." His eyes shot back up and he shouted, "I _will!_ I won't let you stop me from doing that, no matter _who_ you are!"

He turned and fled, but much further than his brother had. Circling around the shack, he sprinted up the trail and disappeared behind the next mountain.

"Oh," Esther's hands clamped onto her mouth. "Gascon...It's dangerous to go off by yourself..."

Swaine sighed, looking away from the spot where his younger self once stood. "I know you won't, Gascon. Hell, _I _wouldn't..."

_I __**didn't.**_

__"I'm going after him," she announced in a hurry and followed after the boy.

"Esther?" Swaine refocused himself and watched her bobbing braid climb up the trail. "Esther, don't _follow_ him, you'll only make it _worse!_"

"_Now_ what's got everyone's knickers in a bunch?" Drippy waddled out, his eyes squinted, and looked out into the clearing only to see Swaine standing there. "What now?" the fairy jumped. "Where did they run off ta?"

The scruffy man's anxiety returned to him when she disappeared around the side of the mountain. Oliver reemerged from behind the shack, his arm around a sniffling Marcassin.

"Where's Esther and Gascon?" he echoed.

Swaine stood there, staring at that same spot at the top of the trail that kissed the side of the mountain. The moon showered the path with light, but it still didn't put the man to ease. Monsters were the least of his concern. Only to himself could he admit that he enjoyed Esther's company far more than what was considered to be friendly. And knowing that, Gascon was a part of himself that shared, as the boy earlier put it, "common interests." The truth that made Swaine uncomfortable was that he liked Esther, which more than likely meant that the young prince did, too.

Without stopping to think of what he was doing, Swaine was already up on the trail, despite the protests from his friends. He nearly skidded off the side of the mountain when the trail forced him to turn and pivot up and around to the right. His hand caught the wall just as his foot went airborne, and told himself to fall into the mountain's side if it came down to it. But Swaine regained his composure and he was running again. His lungs constricted within his chest, and gulping down air just wasn't enough, but he didn't want to stop.

There was something that Swaine had learned all too well in his earlier days about consoling someone. He was ashamed to admit now, but when he had first started out on his own, being a cut-purse wasn't the only way he got what he wanted, and he wondered if the women would forgive him for it. Despite it all, he knew that _this—_falling for a woman with genuine feelings and a genuine hope that one day _she_ would like him in return—was punishment for what he had done.

The worst part about it all was that she seemed to have her eyes elsewhere, and damn it all that it had to be _himself_ from long ago.

_Why couldn't it have been me __**now**__ not me from the __**past?**__ It's like the gods are laughing in my face, pulling the puppet strings they way they always do to make my life worse._

He choked a bit and stumbled on loose gravel at the top of the hill. Swaine allowed himself to fall to the ground, hip first, and grimaced when his hand fell against a pointed shard of rock. Staring into his palm for a moment, he watched the blood begin to pool in the meatest part of the flesh. He shook it by the wrist vigorously, hoping that it would dry before long. It didn't look too bad otherwise.

"Gascon?" a female voice.

One that Swaine knew well.

The thief glanced up, his eyes leading him up a trail of dead bushes and a twisted tree at the top. It canopied over the sitting prince at the peak of the hill with withered branches. The moon shone brightest up there, and it was easy to spot Gascon huddled on the ground, his knees pulled up to his chest and his face buried in them. Esther was slowly ascending the narrow path up to him.

"Go away," Swaine thought he heard his younger self command.

"No, I won't do that." She joined him there and seated herself beside him.

He didn't protest and she didn't say anything for a while either. Careful not to make a sound, Swaine pushed himself to his feet, and crept down to the base of the trail. He hid himself behind the dead bushes, but knew that if he was found out, they would do little to shield him from their view—especially with the moon shining down on him like a spotlight.

"Listen," Esther began after a long pause. "I think it's very noble of you to do what you're doing."

"What are you talking about?" he asked, his words absorbed into his knees.

"For Marcassin. You giving up your place on the throne so that he can have it."

"I'm doing it because it's truly what Father wants."

"No, you're not, Gascon. I can see the love you have for your brother in your eyes. You're doing it to protect him."

The prince snorted and lifted his head up from his knees.

"...Why are you being so nice to me?" his question came out as a whisper. "You barely know me, yet, you act like you know everything about me. As far as I'm concerned, the lot of you are just a bunch of crazy folk who won't stop pestering me." He looked up long enough to see Esther's pained expression. "Especially that homeless man my father sent to spy on me," he added.

Swaine frowned deeply.

_Why that cheeky, little snot. I have half a mind to put him over my knee._

"You mean Swaine?" Esther laughed and laughed and carried on that way for quite some time, angering the spying man even more. When she managed to sober up, she wiped a tear from her eye and said, "Yes, he rather does appear shoddy, doesn't he? But I can assure you that he is no spy. Really though, he does have some sense about him. Probably because he didn't grow up with a family like you and I. He had to learn the hard way."

Swaine crossed his arms from behind the bush and shook his head.

_If only you knew how wrong you are about that part. You shouldn't learn to judge others so quickly. It's unbecoming of a fine lady such as yourself._

Gascon did not share her humor. His eyes were still as stoic as they had been when she first arrived.

"You didn't answer my question," he mumbled. "Why are you being so nice? It's rather annoying."

"To be nice?" she blinked, taken aback. Then her eyes narrowed and she lightly punched the prince on the arm. He let out an, "ow!" and she said, "Would you rather I do that? Tell you to suck it up because it's your duty as the next heir to the throne?" When he didn't say anything, she stood up, placed her small hands on her hips, and loomed over him like a mother to a child about to be punished. "All right then. I'm being nice to you because I know how it feels to be the daughter of a famous man. My father is one of the Great Sages, I told you this already. Because of that, I was never treated any less than that. People were afraid to. Growing up, it was hard to make friends because of it. My father was kind and gentle, but he could be harsh when he wanted to. Others knew this, and so instead of overlooking that, they chose to avoid me." Esther's eyes softened, as though she was remembering something painful. In a much quieter voice, she added, "I was...very lonely."

Gascon's eyes were on her, but so were Swaine's. When she stood as she did in the moonlight, she didn't seem like a young girl, but a mature and beautiful woman. Even with her childish actions of placing her little fists on her hips, it made her seem regal and proud.

And it made Swaine think.

He had never realized _exactly_ what it meant to be the child of a Great Sage, as his father was the emperor before a sage. Or maybe he was both and Swaine never saw it. Worst of all, he never saw Esther's pain, or the fact that it had been a lot like his. Maybe it was because he always had Marcassin, and the boy had him. It made the loneliness pass that much easier, even when people gave them awkward eyes because of their royal status. It seemed to bother Marcassin less, perhaps because he was still young and didn't see what was really going on, but it had bothered Swaine tremendously. He couldn't make other friends outside of the Empire's stable companions, and he knew their love was true because animals didn't have the capability of lying when it came to love. There were no shifty eye movements like the ones he had seen from the knights or the ladies or the Empire inhabitants.

And that...

That gave him comfort.

He had known no friends, even when he left Hamelin, there was still no one and he no longer had Marcassin. On the streets there were only users, and people trying to survive, just like him. It wasn't until he met the mangy lot he was traveling with right now that he could say he had friends.

Friends.

Oliver, the fairy, and Esther.

"It's not an act," she went on, pulling Swaine's attention back to her still standing form. Her eyes were soft and sad, and even the clenched fists had cracked open. "Looking at you, it's like looking into a mirror. I don't think anyone should go on feeling lonely as we have. You're right. I _don't_ know the important things about you, like your interests, favorite food, or what it's like to be a prince. But what I _do_ know are the feelings you wear on your sleeve, and why. And, for that, I want to be your friend. I'm nice to you because you're our friend—my friend—and that is no lie."

Swaine restrained himself from exhaling upon hearing her heavy words.

_She's an observant one, that girl. I never thought she could have feelings this deep.__ I wish...I wish I could've known her back then. Maybe things would've worked out differently. If I had been the prince, and Marcassin the poor one, I'd like to think I would have taken someone like her as my queen. If the roles had been reversed, perhaps. She's of age now, and I'm sure Rashaad would want her to marry into a comfortable lifestyle. Truth be told, I'm surprised she didn't already have someone in her heart when I met her._

But that was a while since then. Were things changing? What about now, the man in front of her? Past self or not, it wasn't _Swaine_ she was looking at. Undoubtedly, they would have to go back to their old time, and _this_ Gascon would be gone. But would he be out of Esther's heart? And, worst of all, how would she react if she found out that the boy she liked was none other than the former prince of pigs? Now, a prince of thieves...An ex-princely pig thief.

Gascon's eyes remained on Esther long after she finished speaking. He said nothing, his legs still cradled into his chest. Swaine allowed himself to gaze upon them once more, a heart weighing like shackles on his mind.

But then the younger prince pushed himself to his feet and straightened his back so that he was at least a head taller than the girl before him. He waited there for a moment, and Esther watched him, but Swaine was watching, too.

He wished that he knew what was going through his younger self's mind. It seemed ironic, really. Swaine felt like he should've known more.

"A _friend?_" the boy echoed, but his tone was less than kind. "Is _that_ what you're expecting here?"

Esther's face blanked. Apparently, this was _not_ the reaction she had been hoping for. Then again, neither had Swaine, despite having shared a connection with the boy.

"Yes," she choked out, standing her ground. The determination in her eyes twinkled against the moonlight. Her full lips were pushed together, daring him to scold her for her petty ideologies.

Then he grabbed her by the shoulders. It happened so quickly, neither Swaine nor Esther had the proper time to react. Then the prince was nose to nose with her, his chest closing in the space between them. Swaine pulled himself from the bushes, hands shaking.

_No...no no no no no no!_

He reached down to the ground to claw at something—anything!—and his fingers curled around something cold and thick. Esther, startled at first, slowly let herself melt away and closed her eyes, waiting. The prince leaned in, his lips slightly parted.

Swaine took a swing and prayed he wouldn't miss.

The rock pelted Gascon in the side of the head and the prince staggered forward, his face hitting her shoulder rather than his intended target of her pretty lips. Swaine immediately stood up straight while the distraction of the injured boy was still fresh. He flattened his orange shirt and dusty forest green coat, and pretended to stroll up the trail to where they were, still clumsily tangled in embrace.

"Ah," he began, pleasantly, "so _this_ is where you two ended up. We're ready to start off again, you know." Gascon pushed himself away from Esther by this point, his hands covering the wound on his head. He was in between "ow" and hissing for a few more seconds before looking up to the scruffy man. "Something happen?" Swaine cocked his head to one side and smiled.

Gascon growled and shoved past him. "I'll see you back down at the bottom."

Esther, whose moment had been dashed and she wore the expression well on her face, watched the prince stomp down the trail and back toward the clearing.

The older man jerked a thumb in his departing direction.

"What's wrong with him?" he asked.

Her eyes diverted to his, but they were less kind than they had been when watching Gascon. "I'm sure _you_ know. You were _eavesdropping_ on us, weren't you, Swaine?"

His inner happiness at having succeeded in running the boy off made it much easier for him to feign ignorance.

"What? _Me?_" he placed a hand over his heart. "I only just got here. What happened to Gascon? Did he hurt himself?"

Esther continued to glare at him, then clenched her fists and teeth together.

"So..._stupid!_" she bellowed. "_Why_ would you _do_ that?"

"Do what?"

"Fine!" She threw her arms up and turned away from him. "Pretend to act dumb. But we _both_ know you threw something at him. Probably because you _hated_ the idea that someone else could be happy since you're so miserable."

He leaned off to one side and crossed his arms. "Quick to accuse, eh, little missy? You dislike me, so when something goes wrong and I'm around, I'm the perfect thing to blame. That it?"

"You make it _very_ easy for people to dislike you." She whirled around. "You're never there for anyone, and expect everyone to cater to _your_ needs. You steal, lie, and cause mischief everywhere you go."

Her face was budding with anger, but Swaine's was darkening with something far worse. He uncrossed his arms, and pointed a stern finger in her face.

Then, as even-toned as he could muster, he said, "Is that right, eh? That's what you're thinking? You meet Prince-Pretty-Face here and it's got you forgetting what this whole damn team is made of. Well, let me tell you, sweet-pea. Nothing's more certain than how much _I've_ got your back. In _every_ battle we've been up against, I've never let you down, have I? Let's see you name a time. Come on. When have I let you down?"

He waited, but not for very long. It didn't matter much anyway. Esther didn't look quite as though she had the voice to speak. She was shaking, and her eyes were on him. The red was no longer in her face.

"There, then," he continued. "I got us into Hamelin's palace to meet the Great Sage. I was back to back with you and Ollie-boy when we fought the best line of defense Hamelin's technology could create. I didn't back down. I didn't run away. I stayed there all along with you. And I've got every piece of mind to do the same until the end. So when you get these stupid little thoughts swirling around in your head, that's the _one_ thing you ought to remember, or else I'll call you a liar."

"It..." she squeezed her eyes shut. "...It doesn't change the fact that you purposely hit Prince Gascon in the head with a rock. You had no right to—"

"Since when do you have time to get mixed up with royalty?" He grabbed her arm and then winced. It was with the hand he had injured earlier. He shook the pain off. "We're in the past, remember? Did you think that something would happen between you two?"

Esther's eyes shot open, and the red across her cheeks was not from anger, but humiliation. The moon accented her features so well. It whitened her hair and glittered her skin, lit up her blue eyes, but the red across her face was undeniable.

"He gave me hope!" she confessed. "Hope that maybe people like us aren't alone in the world. But I guess you wouldn't know anything about that, _would_ you Swaine? It's a little tougher for thieves to understand loneliness. It's hard to think about loneliness when you're stealing someone's pouch."

The boiling anger in Swaine's body overflowed, and, before he knew it, he had backed Esther into the looming tree behind them. His hand still clenched her arm, and, somewhere in the midst of pushing her back, his second hand had taken her other arm as well. He towered over her, much taller than the prince had been when he went to kiss Esther. But staring down at her like this frightened her, and showed as much in her eyes.

"You know," he whispered when he had wanted to growl the words. "For being so knowledgeable in loneliness, you should take a second look in the mirror and you'll find _me_ there. I did what I did to survive. You may have lived in your father's shadow, but I had _no one,_ you understand? _Nothing._ Not even the hope that tomorrow would bring in a better day. So, if you wish to patronize me, you'd best take a walk down where I have been, and _then_ we can talk about this again."

He thought he could hear her whimpering—no, he was _sure_ he could. When the anger clouding his eyes vanished, Esther was there. Not the strong, proud woman he had seen in the moonlight, but a frightened young girl—the same one who dreamed of princes and princesses and living in a castle in hopes that the fantasy would take away the loneliness of being a Great Sage's daughter. The fear on her face made him lessen the grip he had on her arms.

Then, bringing his head down so that he could stare directly at her instead of being a head or two above her, he said, "Thieves have feelings, too, Esther. And sometimes, they can be just as much a prince as the one you read in story books."

Her chest was rising and falling, even more so due to the fear he had caused her from pushing her back against the tree. Swaine hadn't even remembered doing it. But, regardless of what he had done, it still rendered her as attractive as when she was calling him names and picking fights. Esther had never seen him this way, so angry, so vengeful...not since the nightmare had invaded his body, anyway. There was no nightmare here, though. Only her and him and the moonlight. Even Gascon, his beyond handsome, regally dressed self was nowhere in sight.

_But she'd rather it was __**him**__ holding her like this right now._

He could drowned himself in the ocean of her eyes if he wanted to. Her golden hair and the way it spun down her back in a messy braid. For once, he wished she would let it down so that he could see it. It got ever so tiring to imagine all the little things about her that he wished he could see for himself.

_In this place...this time, she's older than me. But she somehow finds my snotty and uncharismatic self more mature and attractive. I can't blame her for hating me. I'm older—__**much**__ older than her. And my good looks have left me long ago. Ragged through my profession, perhaps. Marcassin kept the good looks. If I had just a __**hint**__ of that, maybe she'd find me as attractive as she does Gascon, and not as repulsive as the man she sees before her, scruffy faced, unkempt hair, bags under my eyes from countless nights hiding from the guards..._

And her lips. They changed shapes so many times. Most of what he had seen were anger toward him, but when he saw her laughing, it made him sad to think _he_ could never get her to smile. Only if bad things happened to him, he imagined, but he, in his own standing, could never steal a smile from her.

And Swaine had been able to steal many things in his lifetime, but never Esther's smile.

_If I had kept the crown, maybe things would be different. I'd still get to know her, my father being a Great Sage, too. We both could've talked more, shared dreams and ideas. What a life that would've been. At least then, if I had asked for her hand in marriage, it would not have been a nasty, repulsive, old man asking her. Maybe I still could've kept my hair looking good._

But there _was_ something he could steal, being in this position. She'd hate him for it later, he knew, however, it would be further than his past self had gotten, and it wouldn't be about Gascon anymore because, in truth, Gascon didn't exist anymore.

When all of the layers were picked apart and peeled, only Swaine, ex-prince of pigs and prince of thieves, remained.

He clamped his mouth over hers, pushing her back into the tree. She was squirming underneath him, but he held on. It was the closest he had ever been to her, and probably the closest he would ever be again. For that, he wanted to remember how sweet her lips tasted, how she smelled like babanas, that stupid fruit, and how soft her skin was against his rough and chaffed hands. It was like touching a doll made of ice—beautiful and smooth to the touch, but cold and unresponsive.

She wouldn't have resisted Gascon's touch. She was willingly accepting it. But Swaine was just Swaine, a thief in the night who stole kisses from girls who hated him. He knew that. But even if that was true, _this_ moment was all that mattered. Her smell intoxicated him, babanas or not—she even tasted like them. It was an amusing thought. If his hands hadn't been keeping hers pinned for fear of her striking him, he would've liked to touch her hair. Not quite the same when getting whipped in the face with it, but to actually wrap his fingers around wisps of her hair, to spin it like gold—to trace it down to the small of her back where her body curved and arched. Not like his where he slouched unattractively.

After a moment, she stopped resisting, and he opened his eyes to see that hers were closed. He ran a tongue over her lips to get one last taste before setting her free.

Esther's eyes fluttered open, as if awakening from a dream. When she saw him standing over her, it was as though she had recognized him for the first time, and he felt somewhat apologetic that she had to see _him_ standing there instead of Gascon. As a thief would, he had stolen her kiss, but, like a romantic, he wanted to be the thief who stole her heart.

_Fat chance, Swaine._

For now, he would be have to be content with just this, and he knew that the day he stole her smile would be the day he succeeded in his less than desired profession. He would become the King of Thieves.

"_Swaine!_" she stomped her foot and continued to scream at him, even as he walked away.

"We'll be seeing you down at the bottom, right? Gotta still find Mornstar and a way back to our own time."

And maybe he couldn't yet steal her smile, but she had certainly stolen his. How ironic.

\/\/\/

Marcassin found his true potential, just as Swaine remembered he had.

And the scruffy thief kept himself at the front when the Candelabracadabra foolishly decided to attack. The most comforting thing he found was that Esther remained behind him, keeping a watch on him in case he couldn't handle it alone. Oliver, being the amazing wizard he was, stayed at his side, and it gave Swaine a warm feeling of belief.

_I hope you see it now, Esther. I rely on you just as much as you guys rely on me._

Gascon remained in the back once congratulations were passed around, mostly to the youngest prince of all.

"I'm sorry, everyone," he announced when they arrived at the outskirts of the city. "But this is where I must say goodbye." The older prince turned his back and took a few steps away from them. "It's time that we went our separate ways."

"What?" Oliver blinked.

"What are you talking about?" Esther walked toward him. "Aren't you coming back to Hamelin with us?"

He gave a brief pause.

"...No. I'm not going back. I'm going to take my own journey."

The desert girl stopped in her tracks and shook her head. "Your own journey? You're running away from home then?"

Gascon spun around to stare at her for a moment. He looked as though he had a thousand things he wanted to say, and only Swaine had the faintest idea of what they were. The prince's eyes were fixated on the girl, thinking about their talk, how she had consoled him, maybe even the kiss he missed. Swaine knew. They _were_ one and the same after all, even if they couldn't read minds.

He averted his attention from her and looked to Marcassin.

"Take care of yourself," Gascon told him. "You should probably have this."

The boy, whose eyes were filled with tears, tossed his scepter aside and dashed toward his brother, nearly knocking Esther down in the process. The older prince kept his eyes on him, then turned his attention to his belt. On one side of his hip was the gun he had so proudly crafted. On the other was a sheath that contained a medium-sized sword. Shame overcame Swaine for a moment.

He had completely forgotten about that sword.

Unfastening the sheath from the belt, Gascon handed it, hilt first, to Marcassin.

"Father gave me that blade, but I really believe it should be in your hands. It's the sword that a sage uses—the kind that you'll be someday."

Marcassin hung his head, the small hands that held the sword trembling. It fell from his grasp, landed in the dirt with a soft _thud!_, and the young prince began to weep.

"Hey, don't cry," Gascon bent down on one knee so that he could see his brother at eye level. He placed a hand on Marcassin's small shoulder, but the boy's hands covered his eyes and his wails grew louder. "Don't be scared. Look, if you ever need my help, I'll come running. I promise, okay? I mean it, Marcassin. Wherever you are, no matter how far away you are, I'll always be there if you need me."

The boys sobs slowed for a moment, and he blubbered, "Wherever...I am?"

"That's right," Gascon smiled—the first smile he had shown Oliver and his friends. The first smile Swaine could distinctively remember having as a child. "But you must understand, Marcassin. You need to train to become a Great Sage, and, in order for me to live up to my promise to you, I must do some training of my own. Father keeps saying that I need to find my role within the Empire, but in order to do that, I need to find out what I'm good at." The smile disappeared from Gascon's face and he bowed his head. "I want to make Father proud. I refuse to be a disappointment to him."

Marcassin was reduced to sniffling, though his eyes were swollen and his face was red. "All right," he managed. "But please come back soon. I'll be waiting for you."

"I will," Gascon raised his head and stood up. "We'll meet again, Marcassin. Just you wait."

Swaine turned his head away and closed his eyes.

_I'm sorry...Marcassin. I'm sorry it took years for me to come back. You must have been waiting for so, so long._

"I wish you and your friends the best, too, Oliver," Gascon saluted the young wizard. "I hope you make it back to your time."

"Thanks, Prince Gascon," he nodded. "I sure hope we meet again someday."

Gascon pivoted on one foot. "I don't think you'll have to call me 'prince' anymore, Oliver. Farewell."

Swaine watched the retreating form of his younger self—watched the despairing form of his little brother as all he could do was cling to the sword he had dropped to the ground, still trying to connect with the fading energy of his big brother.

_I caused everyone so much pain._

"H-Hey! Wait!"

Swaine glanced up long enough to see Esther take Gascon by the arm and spin him around. His eyes widened, and his mouth cocked to the side.

"W-What? What is it?"

He was staring down at where she still had her hand on his arm. She must have noticed, too, because she quickly released it.

"Are you _really_ sure about this, Gascon?" she asked, quietly.

The gears in his head were moving, and his eyes couldn't seem to completely focus on her. She was hinting at their earlier talk, Swaine figured. She _had_ to be.

"...It's what I've decided," he whispered. "I'll be better off watching Marcassin from afar—watching him become a sage." Then his eyes found hers. "You're right, you know. It's a lonely, lonely path being a prince. I want to make sure that he doesn't have to endure that sadness. I want to become strong enough to show him a different kind of world. But I won't be able to find it behind Empire walls, not while I find myself suffering in the same way."

"But—"

"I'm afraid you're wasting your breath, Esther." Gascon patted her elbow. "I don't change my mind once I've made a decision. That's the _Gascon_ way."

"The 'Gascon way,' huh?" her voice cracked. Swaine couldn't see her. He wondered if she was crying, too. She paused, just the two of them staring at each other for a while. "Well..." she sighed. "It seems like you're really determined to be your own man."

"I am."

"But I refuse to say goodbye." She wagged a finger in his face. "How about...until next time."

Gascon smiled, but it wasn't a smile Swaine remembered having, because he hadn't known Esther in the past. But, she was a pretty good thief whether she knew it or not. She was able to not only steal _his_ smile, but the smile of his younger self.

_That_ was an incredible feat.

"All right, until next time." He took the hand that gave him the pointed finger, and cradled it within his own. "In the future...in _your_ time...until then." He placed her hand at her side and turned to walk away.

Esther remained there, holding the hand he had touched with her other hand. He was but a few more feet ahead of him when her arm shot up in the air to wave and she called out, "Take care, Gascon!"

He stopped to see her, mirrored her wave, then continued on his way. Esther was still waving long after he had looked on, and didn't stop until he was on the other side of the hill.

"That boy..." Swaine heard her say. "He is so stubborn."

She turned to face them, a starstruck gaze in her eyes and a silly smile plastered on her face.

It frustrated him.

"Yeah, well, I hope his decision isn't a poor one," Swaine mumbled and kicked at a stone in the dirt.

The smile that wasn't for him disappeared and she retorted, "Well, I'm _sure_ he won't become a thief like _some_ people. I'll bet he makes his dream come true and travels back to Hamelin and see Marcassin a million times better a man than ever."

With that, she stormed past him and continued down the hill to the gates of the Empire. Drippy consoled a still sullen Marcassin, and Oliver offered to carry the scepter if the boy wanted to carry the sword.

Swaine remained on the hill, looking over the Empire he left behind, and down at the girl he could only imagine being his queen in fairy tales. As highly as she spoke of Gascon, it left the older man with a thought that caused him to chuckle. What irony it was that Esther would find admiration in Gascon, yet, have complete disdain for Swaine when the two were one and the same person. She may have been disgusted when the man named Swaine had stolen a kiss from her, but he dared to wonder what her reaction might be if she were ever to discover that, through Gascon, she had willingly almost kissed him anyway.

~ Fin

\/\/\/

Hope it wasn't terrible. If so, please let me know why (nicely of course). I don't have any future plans to write another Ni No Kuni fic, but you never know, and if I do, I'd like to do it right, hahahaha...

ML


End file.
